Young people are becoming addicted body and soul to video “killing” games, according to the US Surgeon General.
He says that more and more people are beginning to understand the adverse mental and physical effects of video games on pre-teenage and teenage children.
And you can take it from me, more and more post-teenage people are beginning to receive adverse mental and physical effects from pre-teenage people who play video games.
Where grandfathers could once beguile children at night with hair-raising tales of mildly misspent youth the country or even enlist the aid of Alice and the white rabbit, such activities have been outshone by the interstellar mayhem on the small screen in the large front room.
One could even cope with television serials; cricket televises so well and grandfathers could drag unwilling pre-teenagers to watch the finer points of the game.
But now what is there left for a post-teenager who led by some child and bombed silly by spaceships on a screen or missiled into oblivion in cosmic capers that fill him with confusion and despair.
This grandfather, whose reflexes were never terribly good has become known as Spaceship Disasteria and is referred to as the Mutated Mug ever the young experts of galactic encounters gather.
Not only does one’s sitting room resound to the eerie electronic pingings of plummeting space craft and the loud triumphant cries of the beady-eyed young warriors of black hole and quasar but indeed it is taken into public life.
I shan’t forget the terrible debacle when my grandfather role fell as flat as a flying saucer as I waited hopefully for a batch of grandchildren unloading from a mere jet.
Great thrill
I could tell from the blasé look on their faces that the journey in this hackneyed old runabout of the air had been no great thrill when one considers the great war machines of the outer galaxies.
Once they would have advanced, faces abeam to plant a tender kiss on the old sunspotted face of the family patriarch, but no, they gave me a cursory look remarking, “Hullo Gramps you here?”
Then a look of eager tenderness, of joyful glee crossed their countenances.
Oh, they had recanted, I thought. Latent love had exploded in their little hearts and they were about to take their grandfather to their young throbbing bosoms.
They gave a shriek of sheer ecstasy and next moment had rushed by my outstretched huggers to attach themselves to a space war machine. Perceptibly they changed. Cold hate shone in their eyes. Ruby lips went into a ruthless line. Little hands clutched controls, banged switches and the whole thing suddenly assumed an air of space age butchery and planetary mayhem almost too terrible to contemplate.
It was no use telling them not to spend their pocket-money on trifles. Is space war a trifle? These young brooding generals, these Amazonian field marshals were there to fight to the end or as long as the money lasted.
It was when the money clanked away into electronic oblivion that they sensed my presence and for a moment the hood of concentration and devastation dropped from their faces. Quiet childish innocence returned. Lips curled like rosebuds again.
Hallo, Gramps” they said, “It’s lovely being with you. Have you got some 20-cent pieces?”
Why, of course, I thought Every space war needs finance Buck Rogers can’t do without bucks, after all.
I felt in in my pocket, which was heavy with 20-cent pieces that I had mentally last aside for confectionery.
“Have a go, Gramps” they said.
I found myself pitted against a young child who should have still been lisping poems about Christopher Robin.
Space chariot
Once she was in her space chariot, I found her play to have the determination of Carlton in a grand final overlaid with the less attractive qualities of Boadicea blooding her chariot wheels on the Romans.
She brought her space Squadrons out with an Interplanetary frenzy and before I knew where I was, I had been blasted out of the electronic sky. In fact, the battle had attracted the attention of other passengers in the terminal lounge and several remarked it was terrible seeing an old man in his ultimate enfeeblement encouraging innocent children in such wasteful and warlike pursuits.
I realised that shaving failed in my first spacial combat I was now relegated to a minor role.
“You can be Treasurer of the Galaxy” one grandchild told me and I forked out obediently.
I’m glad to say he beat hell out of his sister, lasering and missiling her into a near-tearful state.
It was then my son and daughter-in-law arrived and showed that while outer space has a fine independence, there are still a few earthbound disciplines with us, thank heaven. As we all wandered towards the car, the children said they had brought their own video games for my television and that we would be among the warring stars again as soon as they got into their pyjamas.
I raced off and spent a couple of 20-cent pieces or chocolate bars.
They had a steadying influence on me and when I got home I defected the television set with all possible speed.
The children shouted “Earthman pig” at me as they were set to bed early but I took it as a compliment.
After all, we old terrestrials still have a trick of two up our unpressurised sleeves.
Max Fatchen